


A Horse With No Name

by Lothiriel84



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aromantic Awareness Week, Aromantic Sherlock, Friendship, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Platonic Relationships, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 08:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9876482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lothiriel84/pseuds/Lothiriel84
Summary: In the desert you can remember your name'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain- America -





	

He’s standing outside the morgue, a cup of coffee in his hand, and all of a sudden he finds himself questioning the accuracy of his thought process. He was sure it would be easier to do it here – her home away from home, and simultaneously neutral enough ground that it shouldn’t feel like an intrusion on his part.

 _You’re not used to being unsure_ , the Eurus in his head taunts him. _It’s more common than you’d think_ , he tells her, exactly like he did last time. He wonders if he’s somehow still failing to notice something blindingly obvious, just as he happened to on that particular occasion; or maybe it’s precisely that there’s nothing to see through, and he’s been making a fool of himself all along.

(He thinks of Mary, lying in John’s arms under the indifferent gaze of floating sharks; thinks of Mycroft, of his half-hearted attempt at humour as he adjusted his tie and prepared for his ultimate fate. He would jump off not one, but a thousand buildings, if that were enough to take it all back; what a tender world that would be, he frowns to himself, and glares at the Styrofoam cup for good measure.)

“Sherlock?” a familiar voice makes itself heard at his elbow, and he doesn’t drop the cup, but it’s a close thing.

(He ordered a white Americano at the canteen, the barista looked at him and asked if he wanted a _grande_. Which was ridiculous, firstly because the word they’d picked for medium actually meant big, and secondly because he couldn’t see why he should ask for a size in Italian of all things.)

“I brought you coffee,” he explains when the silence stretches a bit longer than it’s comfortable, and he sees the flash of sadness and hurt in her eyes before she looks up and offers him a smile that is kind of forced, but only just a little.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, her fingers closing around the cup as if to better absorb the warmth radiating from its content. (Entropy, his brain supplies somewhat unhelpfully; that’s why coffee gets cold, and the ice cubes in a cold drink melt. He’s not here to ponder on such things as the laws of thermodynamics, he reminds himself – though his mind strays to his mother of all people, and he fights the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh.)

“Are you okay?” Molly enquires at length, carefully; and that’s her to a tee, always putting everyone else’s needs before – or even instead of – her own. He wonders whether he should leave her to lick her wounds in peace, or better yet take a more drastic approach and distance himself for her sake. She’s his friend, always, but that’s not all she wants from him, and he would cut the heart out of his chest and hand it to her if he could, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s not able to offer her what she wishes for.

“I’m sorry,” he offers instead, and he’s only too painfully aware that it’s not enough. Still she meets his gaze, her eyes calm and unwavering; it’s her turn to deduce him, and while he finds it vaguely unsettling he wouldn’t say he minds.

(Warm brown irises, nothing like glacial blue staring back at him through a not-glass; he thinks of John, of young Victor lying at the bottom of a well where no one could hear him scream, and he has to remind himself to breathe.)

If this is the autopsy of their friendship, then he wants to commit its last moments to memory. His hand reaches for her cheek without any conscious decision on his part; hovers there without touching, warmth seeping through the layers of air separating him from her skin.

(He meant it, every word he said, though they both know not in the same way she meant it. That’s the trouble with English language, a single word can carry so many different layers of meaning; it’s all about context, and emotional context is not always the most reliable indicator when it comes to getting your meaning across.)

They stand there for a moment, nearly touching but not quite, staring in each other's eyes; until eventually she sighs, and pulls back. That’s it, he thinks, and steels himself for the finality of a goodbye that will only hurt him more now that he’s realised how much she matters to him.

Molly, however, simply balances her coffee on the nearest available surface – radiator, good, that would at least slow down the progress towards thermodynamic equilibrium – and takes one step closer.

“Come here,” she tells him, gently, like she would do with a small child. It takes him one long painful moment to work out her intentions – sentiment is not, and never will be his strong suit; then he understands, and opens his arms to her.

It’s mildly uncomfortable at first; he seldom allows himself to be hugged, even more so when his intent might be misconstrued as a sign of romantic attachment. Molly, on the other hand, appears to be fully aware of where they both stand now, and he gradually relaxes into the embrace.

“Friends?” she murmurs somewhere in the vicinity of the lapels of his coat. “Friends,” he confirms, his mind automatically registering the way her body feels against his own – two systems slowly adjusting their respective temperatures until they reach equilibrium.

(John Watson was wrong, he muses somewhat idly, his chin now resting on top of Molly’s head – hair smelling of cherry and almond shampoo, her favourite. If there’s one thing that can complete him as a human being, that’s most definitely not some sort of romantic entanglement.)

He thinks of the plastic cup still sitting on the radiator, and the new cafeteria that has recently opened just around the corner from St Bart’s. He should take Molly there, get her a proper cup of coffee; that’s what friends do, after all.


End file.
